


High Society

by hepsybeth



Series: Give Those Kids and Me the Brand New Century [9]
Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, M/M, Original Character(s), Physical Disability, Prohibition, Slice of Life, i put graphic displays of violence bc someone gets shot even tho it's not graphic, i'm talking so many ocs, just playin it safe!, temporary cat adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:16:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hepsybeth/pseuds/hepsybeth
Summary: “What am I gonna do with your cat?” was a question Spot didn’t envision himself asking, but here he was, bright and early in the morning, in front of Race, asking it anyway.





	High Society

**Author's Note:**

> so..i had this semi written back in December, but i also was bored to death with it. so i spun an imaginary wheel and was like, *eric andre voice* what if there was a cat?
> 
> so i added a cat
> 
> also, i don't own a cat. and i know nothing about new york outside of a computer. and i used the appearances of from the newsies show rather than the movie (but the personalities are a blend). so if anything seems ooc, imagine i took that character and blended their personalities from two different mediums and served it to you. yeah.
> 
> the song is "high society" by king oliver's creole jazz band
> 
> (leave comments if you liked it!)

“What am I gonna do with your cat?” was a question Spot didn’t envision himself asking, but here he was, bright and early in the morning, in front of Race, asking it anyway. He stood at the front door of his apartment, although “stood” was layering it rather thick. He was leaning on his good leg more than anything, so his stance was somewhat lopsided.

“It ain’t my cat, it’s Boots’ cat,” Race said, mumbling around his cigar, rather than answering the question. He talked from the other side of the open door, having walked up the stairs inside the building. He looked to be in a hurry, seemingly vibrating out of his skin. His blonde hair was neatly combed, his ever-present flat cap was replaced with a panama hat, he was wearing a new tie, and the cigar in his mouth rolled from one end of his mouth to the other before he took it out again. “It’ll only be a few hours.” He grimaced and cocked his head from one side to the other, as if trying to weigh the truth of that statement. He finally smiled apologetically. “Nah. Tight schedule. Make that a full day at the  _ least. _ ”

Spot frowned. “The hell ya doin’ with Boots’ cat?” He’d grown up with Boots. As kids, they were the same height and as adults, they still were. They had both been cursed with a short stature, watching both childhood friends and miscreants more than half their age shoot up like unyielding weeds. Not unlike Race himself, who had once upon a time been shorter than Spot. Somehow, Spot’s growth spurt jumped ahead of Race’s own and it was the first, and last, time the heights had been reversed. It was only for one summer, but it was the longest summer of Race’s life.

About Boots, however, he didn’t even know the guy  _ had _ a cat. He didn't seem the type. This was a hell of a time to find out.

“I promised him I’d watch it,” Race said, as if that explained everything.

It did not explain everything.

“What’s that gotta do with me, Race?” Spot asked, stifling a yawn. He’d only had four hours of sleep. His plan last night was to sleep in and, after this situation got figured out, he was decidedly going to head back to his bed (one of his pals, Henry, was a doctor now and the prescription he was handed commanded copious rest. Spot didn’t object). He’d yet to see the cat. 

“I  _ can’t  _ watch it,” Race said. “I gotta job interview at the Stacy Adams Shoe Company. Ya lookin’ at their new store salesman!” His next words were fast-paced, taking on a Mid-Atlantic accent, and he made hand motions as if he were holding a pair of shoes in front of Spot. “Better loosen your trousers because you’re about to bust a gut! Stacy Adams Shoes! Incredibly hole-proof! Pleasant fit! The best shoes money can buy!” He cleared his throat. “Potentially. I hope I get this job.”

“Seems right up your alley,” Spot said, genuinely meaning it. “But what’s Boots gonna do if he goes to ya for his cat and it ain’t there?”

“Redirect to you,” Race said, a carefree smile on his face. “ _Obviously._ ”

Spot refrained from pinching the bridge of his nose. “But Race—”

“Yeah?”

“The cat? Where’s the fuckin’ cat?”

Race’s eyes widened as if he’d forgotten the reason he’d stopped by in the first place. He looked down to his feet and comically turned around, his eyes locked to the ground. With his back facing Spot, he looked over his shoulder to Spot and laughed nervously. “Just…just give me a second.”

Spot waited while Race searched for the elusive cat, listening while he mimicked the meows of a cat to hopefully attract the animal. Race slowly walked down the stairs and looked over the railing to the ground floor below.

“Found it!” he exclaimed, and Spot watched as Race swung his legs over the railing and he heard the sound of the man hitting the ground (along with the angry shouts of other people who lived in the apartment). Spot’s knee angrily pulsed, almost in disapproval. The sound of angry mewling and hissing resounded and Spot waited patiently for this responsibility he hadn’t asked for (but would do anyway because this was Racetrack, so obviously he’d do it).

“Her name is Clementine,” Race said when he was finally back at the doorway, holding a mass of squirming orange fur. His cigar was gone and his appearance seemed to much more rumpled, more like he usually was. Clementine didn’t seem to enjoy being handled and Race eventually lost his grip on her and she jumped from his arms to the inside of Spot’s apartment. In a smooth motion, Spot stepped outside of the door and closed it behind him.

“Don’t think she likes me, huh?” Race said.

Spot softly chucked, but refrained from rolling his eyes. He gestured to the left side of Race’s face, near his chin where a thin red line was. “Looks like she nicked ya.”

Race reached a hand up to his chin and pressed down, wincing for a second. In the next second, his face brightened. “What cat problem? I just cut myself shavin’, I was so excited to sell Stacy Adams Shoes.”

Spot smiled and shook his head. “Get outta here, Race.”

“Sure,” Race said before taking Spot’s hand, looking around to see if anyone was watching (everyone else at this ungodly hour was sleeping), before planting a tender kiss on it.

“Fix your hair, Romeo,” Spot said, face reddening as Race made his move to walk down the stairs. 

“Love ya too, Conlon” was all he called out before his head disappeared underneath the stairwell.

Spot smiled to himself, reveling in this quiet and sudden happiness in the morning, before his senses caught up to him and his eyebrows shot up. 

He had a fucking cat.

* * *

The cat ended up not being so much of an issue for a sleep-deprived Spot Conlon. He rationalized that if he didn’t see the cat and if the door was closed (so the cat, Clementine, couldn’t escape), he was fine. He could sleep.

He went back to sleep.

Or tried to. It hadn’t lasted as long as he’d liked. Something loud had woken him up and his eyes were still far too bleary to start looking around to see what exactly it was. When he fell onto his mattress, it was five past the ungodly hour. According to his watch, it was only—

Spot squinted.

—Fifty minutes past. 

Spot groaned. He was so tired.

Also, his knee hurt.

Barely fifty minutes wasn’t long enough to take the exhaustion away, but it was long enough to start dreaming. He couldn’t remember what he’d been dreaming about, but he had definitely been dreaming. It was hazy now, only faint whispers of sound and fading flashes of light being all that remained of whatever vision decided to play out behind his eyelids. Dreams always seemed to leave a sense of longing, maybe, aching in his chest. The feeling would eventually wane by the time his front door closed behind him, would’ve vanished entirely once he’d had his morning cup of joe. Until then, it’d stick with him like a incessant itch that he couldn’t scratch. Far away enough for him to ignore it, but close enough to irritate the hell out of him until he got his bearings.

He cast aside the last vestiges of his dream. He wasn’t interested in its meaning, or lack thereof. His leg was his primary concern.

It  _ hurt _ .

It fucking hurt like a mother _ fucker _ .

Spot wasn’t the kind to visit those gentlemen in the medical profession. Spot could only recall entering a hospital once during his entire childhood (and that one time had been against his will, but he was far too unconscious to have any say in the matter). And as he grew older, it became all the more obvious that he was the type of person to grind his teeth and tell himself that nothing was wrong, roughhousing anything from food poisoning to a twisted ankle into a tiny closet named “DISREGARD”. That method had served him well throughout the majority of his life and he didn’t expect for this pattern to change in any way. 

However, after being shot in the leg, in the knee to be specific, by a Prohie months ago, all the teeth-grinding in the world wouldn’t have been able to take his mind off the pain.

The exchange was supposed to go smoothly, as most exchanges did. Booze would leave one hand and cash would be received by the other. There were always variables that you couldn’t account for, such as trigger-happy men or the potential for men to jump ship or just general greediness. Spot was only one person. He couldn’t keep track of all that. He would pay attention to the weather, measure the vulnerability of the location, learn all he could about the men on the other side of the equation, record everything, keep people in line as best he could.

You couldn’t ever count on Prohies, however, and that was unfortunate.

He recalled how he half crawled, was half dragged into the getaway automobile before it sped away from the scene. He remembered the arguments and the reassurances that nothing incriminating had been left behind. Spot wasn’t able to focus on the details at the moment, unfortunately; he could hardly form a coherent thought on account of the white-hot pain burning in his knee. He was writhing in incredible discomfort and his teeth were clenched so hard, he was sure they would shatter. He remembered the thick smell of pennies in the car. He remembered swearing at the blood pouring from his leg, outraged that the hot liquid had the  _ audacity _ to leave his body without his express permission.

His knee was somewhat treated by his friend Henry (because if you couldn’t trust a childhood friend who’d stitched up countless injuries after Spot instigated countless fights, who could you trust?). Afterwards, Spot was confined to his bed for days. Days turned into weeks. Henry came over a lot, whether to engage his leg in exercise or ask him how much pain he was in. Beyond him (and Race of course), Spot didn’t get a lot of visitors. Spot might have not been the most sociable person, but it was suffocating being unable to move around. It was like being a prisoner of his making with a sentence of indeterminate date.

Boredom got the better of him and, the pain in his knee notwithstanding, he eventually left the room with every intent to go back to business as usual. Inventory needed doing, he was immensely behind on business deals, his reputation needed reinforcing (if it hadn’t already been shot to hell), and if Spot’s knee acted up more on one day than another, no one was the wiser.

After almost a year of near-normalcy (or whatever is considered normalcy for a businessman who dealt with the illicit), Spot had regained his usual routine and practices. Maybe walking down the stairs of his apartment of residence caused him to wince every once in a while, maybe sharp pains might shoot up his knee when it started raining outside. He had understood the risks going into this business and far be it from him to waste away and become a liability. He had money to make.

Spot groaned and sat up in his bed. While he did his Henry-prescribed knee exercises, he distantly heard the sound of meowing. He sighed and pinched his nose, his bad leg landing on the floor. 

The fucking cat.

He shook his head and ran his hand through his thick black hair. He had to wash. He had to get ready for the day. He could hear the busy sounds of the city from outside his window, so he was already behind. But first—

“Clementine?” Spot started, before saying to himself, “Who the fuck names a cat ‘Clementine’?” He got to his feet, leaning more on his good leg and walked around, peeking into every small corner and lifting anything that could be hiding something cat-sized.

He frowned before a thought came to him. Better than nothing. “Oh my darlin’, oh my darlin’,” he sang. Would a cat care if it was off-key? “Oh my darlin’, Clementine.”

And, as if by magic, the elusive cat crept into view from a space Spot swore he’d already checked. Spot, finally able to get a good look at the thing, took in its bright orange fur and its dark green eyes and its stance that asked “You rang?”

“Well, fuck a duck,” Spot said. “Didn’t think that’d work.” Now, he was curious about Boots and what possibly led him to take care of a cat that he had to  _ sing  _ to if he wanted its attention.

The cat stared at Spot and Spot stared at the cat. He was hesitant to look away from the cat (God knows it liked to disappear). Nevertheless, he had a feeling that he needed to look at something. He glanced away from the cat and towards an object on the ground near the window. It was a black mass and, upon closer inspection, he noticed what it was.

“Ya knocked over my phone?” Spot asked aloud, quickly glancing back towards the cat, who hadn’t moved (thankfully). Resuming the staring, he continued, repeating, “Ya knocked over my fuckin’  _ phone? _ ”

_ Sure, _ Clementine’s eyes seemed to say.

“Do ya know how much a phone  _ costs? _ ”

_ You gonna cry about it? _ Clementine’s eyes seemed to say.

“Like 14 bucks,” Spot said. He narrowed his eyes at Clementine. “More than you.”

Rather than answer, Clementine began to lick at her front paw.

“Ok,” Spot sighed, closed his eye, and pinched his nose. “Ok. Clementine. A fuckin’ cat. Ok.” He opened his eyes and looked at the cat who, miraculously, decided to not run off again. “Clementine?” Not getting an answer, Spot continued. “If I leave ya alone so I can get ready, do ya promise to not knock anythin’ over?”

Clementine lowered her paw and looked up at Spot with a look that said,  _ No promises. _

“Goddammit,” Spot groaned. “I’m leavin’ you alone for five minutes.” And he walked away and headed to the small bathroom and did everything he usually did at half the time. A quarter of the time. He rushed through stripping down from his sleepwear to pissing TO scrubbing his skin and brushing his teeth and cleaning his hair, finishing it off with pomade. He nodded into the mirror and re-entered his room, grabbing a shirt that he’d laid out the night before and threw it on. As he started fixing the loops of his suspenders, he frantically looked around for the cat and spied it on his desk covered in carefully organized papers. The papers, all alphabetized and organized by subject matter, contained everything from financial statements to a list of presents he planned to buy for his friends come Christmastime (because, contrary to popular belief, Stop was actually nice sometimes).

Spot caught Clementine’s eyes. “Don’t ya dare.”

Clementine’s eyes shined with something malicious and, with one fell swoop, she knocked over the stacks and the papers silently fluttered to the ground.

“Goddammit, Clementine!” he shouted as he started running towards the animal, bad knee be  _ damned. _

 

* * *

It didn’t matter how much money Spot made. He could be (and currently was) making more money than his father did in his entire lifetime and he would  _ still _ feel uncomfortable around rich people. Rich people and their expensive clothing and their judgmental glares and their ornate hotel waiting rooms.

Also, turns out, cats weren’t allowed inside of fancy hotels. Funny that. You’d think one of them hoity-toity broads would’ve made a stink about it by now.

Clementine didn’t squirm in his arms, but it was a trial getting her to exit the apartment. Especially because it began to sprinkle outside. His knee ached long before he grabbed his grey-handle cane and continued to ache when he put on his black fedora. He tried to pay it no mind. Broken clocks and all that.

However, once he looked up and saw the dark grey clouds in the sky and smelled the tell-tale scent of incoming rain, Spot conceded that he should’ve just listened to his knee.

Turns out, trying to walk with a cane while carrying a cat was a near impossible task that not even Hercules had been forced to endure. After trial and error (and Spot threatening the cat with just leaving it to its own devices on the streets of Brooklyn), they’d managed some kind of peace. Spot would walk with his cane while Clementine crawled all about his shoulders. He got used to it.

He had to get used to it, regardless. He was due to meet Bryan Denton in Manhattan (catching a ferry with a cat on his shoulders and all) because it was  _ more convenient _ for Bryan Denton. And the son of a bitch was so temperamental that Spot would be smart not to test him. Not for his own sake; he didn’t give a rat’s ass about Denton’s opinion about him or any resentment he would’ve otherwise held towards Spot on account of some slight (hell, if he were younger, he wouldn’t think twice before knocking Denton’s head over with either his fist or a stone from his old slingshot). The fact of the matter was that Denton had the sort of effervescent personality that facilitated friendships with all types, giving him the power to say the word and make all his friends turn on someone else on a dime. Spot had seen it happen to others, and Denton had such a way with words that he could ruin someone with only a few of them. It’d be bad for business if he made an enemy of Denton.

Although, Denton wasn’t the only person with friends and it wouldn’t be such a smart move to make an enemy of Spot. But Spot wasn’t inclined to play all his cards this early in the game.

Which brought him to the situation that he was currently in, standing outside the Waldorf-Astoria, waiting for a man who annoyingly didn’t subscribe to the “on time is late” mentality.

Going back to rich people, when it came to the wealthy, perhaps “uncomfortable” was the wrong word. It wasn’t so much that Spot felt like his skin was crawling underneath their gazes (as if he gave a rat’s ass about oldboys and their gold pocket watches and their wives that looked like daughters). But Spot could never shake the constant feeling of irritation. Like his head was a radio antennae and he could hear everything they thought.

Spot never skimped when it came to looking presentable. Money bought nice suits and nice shoes and nice pomade that slicked his curls back and didn’t stink something awful. His appearance nowadays was a far cry away from the appearance he had in his youth. His mess of black curls was cut neatly and combed down into something respectable. His holey shirts were replaced with the good shit from De Pinna’s. He actually had shoes that fit, not pinching even a little. But those changes were all surface level. Not a single person with wealth, especially those of the old money variety, would recognize him as one of them. Maybe his dark eyes were just a little too dark. Maybe his hands looked too rough and worn, a sign that he labored. Maybe his accent was lacking that Mid-Atlantic flair. 

Maybe it was because he rarely ever smiled. 

God knows if they said anything about his cane, it’d be the last thing they ever said.

Spot stared down one of the bellboys, who looked as if he’d been sent out to keep him from loitering, and the bellboy ended up saying nothing at all. He watched hotel-goers walk in and out of the Waldorf-Astoria, letting his eyes do all the talking and letting his scowl cut off any conversation from the other person.

He hated this.

After maybe a half hour, a half hour after the decided-upon meeting time, he saw Denton himself from across the street. Denton had a big smile on his face and was missing his hat for some reason. He caught Spot’s eyes and raised his right hand up to wave at him. 

Spot didn’t wave back. He opted instead to pull out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one. Clementine pawed at his ear, nearly knocking over his hat.

“It ain’t gonna kill ya,” he muttered to the cat.

With the attitude of someone who either didn’t fear death, or was simply an idiot, he walked down the street, dodging the cars passing through. It was incredible to watch, if Spot was being honest. The cars seemed to just…let him pass. Spot had seen people get run over for less. But Denton had something about him, he figured. Some kind of charm intertwined with divine intervention (and if his stories were true, that would make sense for a man who fought in the War and had nothing to show for it but a few scars. He hadn’t even gotten  _ shot _ .)

“Conlon!” Denton said when he was finally in front of him. His brown hair wasn’t gelled down and it gave the impression that he had just rolled out of bed. His shirt collar wasn’t high enough to hide the bruise-colored spot of a hickey on his neck. His face was red and his eyes were shiny, but he didn’t smell of alcohol, so he wasn’t drunk as far as Spot could tell. To double check, Spot asked him.

“Are ya drunk?” He stared at the man, hoping his distaste was disguised in his voice. 

“Only drunk on life,” Denton said, his words crisp and clear and without a hint of slurring. He looked over Spot’s shoulder and laughed. “That’s a handsome cat! When’d you get it?”

“Last night,” Spot said simply. “It ain’t mine.” He emphasized the last bit. Clementine meowed loudly behind his other ear. “It’s temporary.” And then Clementine knocked his hat off.

Denton laughed loudly. “Am I correct to assume that that cat’s a gal?”

Spot stared at Denton. The last thing Conlon wanted was to engage in small talk. How was your weekend, what are your plans, how’s your love life, read any books lately. He didn’t care to know and he didn’t care to tell.

Plus, Spot wasn’t sure why this couldn’t be done on the phone, but it was Denton’s decision and petty arguments were seldom worth it. Especially in the case of Bryan Denton. 

“Ya arranged this meetin’,” Spot said, carefully reaching down for his hat because, apparently, Denton couldn’t be fucked to do as much. He looked up at the taller man without raising his chin. “Care t’ tell me about this establishment you’re acquainted with? The Wellingtons? And how much they’re willin’ t’ pay for the gin?”

Gin, in Spot’s opinion, was a nice change of pace. The sale of spirits such as rum and whiskey and wine were still reliable, despite the attempts by Prohies to poison the merchandise. Spot had long since abandoned beer since the manufacture of it seemed to grow crappier and crappier by the day. But gin was on the up and up for the time being. He’d knew it’d change eventually, but he followed the trends. Apparently people liked mixing it with stuff. Who knew?

And so they discussed it, the Whos, the Wheres, and the Hows. The two men didn’t attract any attention, not with Denton’s charm giving onlookers a good peace of mind and Spot’s frown keeping anyone from getting too close (especially when people seemed surprised to see a cat on his shoulders when, fuck you, the cat wasn’t your business). Spot, having been taking notes in his notebook, finally put it away once the business deal finished up. It took around ten minutes to do it, but it could’ve taken longer (Denton kept trying to finagle stories about “last night” and something about a “Madolina” and “proposing”, but Spot would cut it off and redirect the conversation to the matter at hand). A time and place was decided and Denton tipped an imaginary hat before going back to wherever he came from.

 

* * *

Spot entered Paula’s Place to the sound of a woman shouting, “I know that isn’t a damn  _ cat _ on you!”

“Guilty as charged,” Spot said, raising his free hand in an apology. He shrugged, as best as he could, at the woman behind the counter. Paula Larkin, the older sister of Medda Larkin, ran this joint. Her younger sister went into show business, and was quite successful on both the speakeasy circuit and more legitimate night performances at the Cotton Club. Paula, however, was more devoted to preparing the best hoagies for miles around. “I’m watchin’ it for a friend.”

Paula’s frown was pronounced with disapproval, and Spot knew that she was just itching for an excuse to kick him out. Paula was tall and thin where her sister was short and round. Her skin was many shades darker than Medda’s and her hair many shades whiter. And in all of the time that Spot had been a patron of the diner, he hadn’t once seen the woman smile. 

Currently the diner was bustling with loud-talking customers. The majority were regulars, no doubt (Race once joked that once you tasted the diner’s food, you were cursed with seeing every other diner as substandard). The black and white checkerboard tile floor never dirtied and the warm floral wallpaper never faded. A row of circular black stools ran down the length of the bar and the lights overhead glowed a with a soft yellow color.

“That cat better not keep my customers away, Conlon,” Paula said before going to reprimand a new waitress who hadn’t yet got the hang of things, by the way the poor girl was awkwardly trying to balance a number of plates.

“Twenty inches of snow couldn’t keep ya customers away,” Spot replied. He chose to walk towards the back of the diner, his cane tapping loudly against the shiny floor. Sitting down, and letting his cane rest over his thighs, he sighed in relief when Clementine jumped off his shoulders and onto the floor. Off to search for mice in vain, probably. 

He hardly had time to get comfortable before a waitress, named Darla, came up to Spot’s booth.

“And what would you like?” she asked. Spot was fond of Darla, having been waited on her at the diner many times before. She was from Maine and had an accent that dropped the Rs from any word that didn’t start with it, as well as rounding up the ends of every word she said in a way that made it sound like a question. She was fond of talking about her adventures as a traveler (she’d made a home for herself in every state in the New England region and she saw Appalachia as her next big conquest). She was also fond of movies, and Spot had learned to never talk about a movie he was planning on seeing because Darla would never fail to spoil the big reveal in the 3rd act. 

Darla’s red hair was currently extremely short, looking like it had been shaved to the scalp and was only starting to grow back. Spot recalled back in his childhood that sometimes kids would have their hair shaved off after getting lice. So it could be that. Or, it could be Darla wanting to one-up the popular bobbed hair cut.

Darla was also extremely smiley and she blinked her eyes suggestively. Spot was plenty accustomed to people trying to flirt with him. Unfortunately for the flirters, unless they had unruly blonde hair, a loud and nasally voice, the chronic habit of getting under Spot’s skin, and had the name Racetrack, they were plumb out of luck. 

“Tell Paula that I’ll have the usual,” Spot said, giving her a not-unfriendly grin. 

“Is that a cat?” Darla said jumping. Spot was worried that it might have been fright at first (he wasn’t in the mood for getting kicked out of the diner), but he relaxed once he heard her make a cooing noise while her hand rested over her heart. “It’s so cute! What’s its name?”

“Clementine,” Spot said.

“That’s so  _ darling! _ ”

“The usual, please?” Spot reminded her. 

Darla pouted, but nodded before hurrying away to the kitchen where Paula currently was.

The kitchen closed behind her and Spot opened a newspaper that he’d picked up on the walk here. _New York World_. He recognized the names of some of Race’s pals and rolled his eyes at a unflattering candid Jack Kelly drew of a politician in his featured satirical political cartoon. A few minutes passed as he waited for his meal and the doors to the diner opened. A sleek and well put-together man strolled through the door, flanked with two equally suave men on either side of him. The man in the middle caught Spot’s eyes and he made his way towards the seated man with an attitude that Spot didn’t appreciate too much.

Spot had lost sight of Clementine, but he heard the cat hiss. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Maybe this cat wasn’t half bad.

“I heard I could find you here,” the man said with a thick Jersey accent. 

Spot eyed the man up and down, deciding not to acknowledge the other men. He recognized the speaker. In his mind, he called him “Jersey”. “That so?”

At that moment, Darla had the unfortunate luck of walking in on the men staring daggers at each other. Her movements were stiff as she placed down the platter of bacon (mostly burnt, just like Spot preferred) and eggs. Spot set down the newspaper and picked up the fork that was next to the platter. A mug of black coffee was placed right next to it and, when that was done, she attempted to awkwardly scurry away.

Not quick enough, however, before Jersey quickly slapped her rear as she was walking away.

Spot’s fist tightened around the fork and he clenched his jaw. Now, he had not choice but to kill Jersey.

“Where was I?” the man began, taking his eyes off of Darla (who was busying herself with getting the orders of new customers, but her smile was unable to completely hide her mortification). “Oh right. I got business with you, Spot Conlon.”

Spot scooped eggs into his mouth. “Okay?”

Jersey, apparently offended that Spot wasn’t acting as threatened as he should’ve been, started working himself into muted rage. His face was red and his accent came out all the thicker when he spoke again. “Maybe you don’t remember me. My name is Ric—”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit,” Spot said. He took a sip of his coffee before continuing, taking his time. “Maybe I don’t remember the last time I blew my nose either.”

“Listen to this fuckin’ guy!” Jersey chuckled. The two men beside him starting chuckling as well but Spot wasn’t sure if they saw the situation as humorous or because it was their job. 

By this time, the chatter of the diner’s other customers had gone down considerably. People were nervously looking every which way and a few individuals were asking waitresses for a check. No doubt so they could vacate the premises as soon as possible.

Not that they had anything to worry about. Spot had a rule against starting fights that weren’t on his own turf. That, and if he instigated anything inside this diner, it’d be the last time he’d ever be able to step foot inside it. And where else was he supposed to get the best eggs and bacon in the city?

Clementine hissed from somewhere below him. He felt her warm weight press against his leg and Spot couldn’t help feel small bit of comfort from the action.

“I got business with you, Spot Conlon,” Jersey said, as if that explained everything. Spot wasn’t sure where Jersey got off assuming that he held more importance than literally any of the other schmucks Spot had business with. What the hell was this guy’s problem?

Spot began to feel irritation brewing inside his mind like a kettle of tea seconds away from screaming. The gall of this fucker. The goddamn  _ nerve _ . If Spot didn’t respect Paula as much as he did, nothing would’ve stopped him from shooting a hole in the middle of this man’s ugly mug. Who the hell did he think he was, talking to  _ Spot Conlon  _ like that?

But, Spot made a resolution earlier in the year that he wasn’t going to be as impulsive as he had been in his youth. No more fistfighting, even when someone asked for it. No more running over assholes in the middle of the street, no more stabbing people in the neck, no more poisoning people who crossed him. 

No more shooting people in the middle of a diner. He was over that.

So, with a great deal of effort, Spot clenched his jaw and forced his mind to cool down. “Richardson Noah. I remember now.” He hadn’t forgotten. Beyond never forgetting a face and a name, only assholes had their first and last name switched. “Hoboken right? T’ what do I owe the pleasure?”

Richardson Noah leaned forward, his shadow covering Spot’s platter of eggs and bacon. “I never got my money, Conlon.”

_ Maybe it’s up your ass. Have you tried looking there? _ is what Spot wanted to say, but that wasn’t very “diplomatic” of him, as Race would say.

“Money is typically exchanged for goods an’ services,” Conlon said. His coffee was going cold and Spot’s tolerance for this man’s bullshit was apparently far too high. “However, a lack of goods an’ services, as it happens, means a lack of money.” Spot smiled at the reddening face of the man. “Ergo, it ain’t my problem.”

“Bullshit!” Richardson Noah said, before swiping his hand across the table, sending Spot’s platter of unfinished food flying across his corner of the diner. 

Spot blinked slowly. There was no use crying over spilt milk, or spilled eggs and bacon. But his jaw clenched so tight he was afraid they might shatter. He took Race’s advice and counted to ten in his head. He took slow breaths through his nose and exhaled. He thought of calming things, like early-morning dew, a glass of a French 75, the soft sound of Race’s snoring.

“I have to ask you men to leave,” Paula said from the other side of the diner. The woman’s brown arms were crossed over her chest and her frown left no room for argument. Spot briefly wondered if he’d be allowed to come back. Technically, this altercation wasn’t even his fault. But Paula was as immovable as a boulder when she decided if something was bad for business.

“This don’t concern you, bitch,” Richardson Noah, not even bothering to turn around and say it to her face.

No disrespect to his mother, but Spot Conlon decided that he was not only going to kill Richardson Noah, but he was going to shoot him in the face. Sorry, but not sorry, about the future non-open casket service.

“I apologize, Ms. Paula,” Spot said, getting to his feet after moving his cane out of the way. He took a few napkins from the table, stuffing some into his front coat pocket and he bent down, cursing inwardly at the flare of pain, to scoop up the discarded meal on Paula’s previously spotless floor. As Spot cleaned, he heard the men muttering, joking about how bad Spot Conlon could  _ possibly _ be if he was stooping down to clean the messes of other people, especially a person like Paula.

Spot sighed, standing and walking towards a garbage bin. If they thought his unspoken new year resolution to be a nicer person made him seem week, well, that was their funeral.

“Now—” Richardson Noah started, before Spot cut him off with a hand, gesturing for them to sit down at the booth. Richardson Noah sat while the other two men stood, looking like fucking idiots.

“ _ Now _ ,” Spot said, his lips stretching in a poor facsimile of a smile as Richardson Noah frowned from across the table. He spoke slowly and softly while the other customers continued on with their meals. “We can solve the matter of your shipment. My mistake for assuming a great man like yourself would’ve up and lost an entire shipment of booze.” Spot glanced at the two other men who were currently chatting amongst themselves. “Between you an’ me, it’s usually the dumbfucks at the bottom who screw with the entire operation. No sense of efficiency.”

Richardson Noah seemed momentarily at a loss for words before relaxing into an easy smile, feeling buttered up by Spot’s words. “That’s what I’m sayin’!”

“It happens t’ the best of us,” Spot nodded, pretending to agree. Richardson Noah opened his mouth to say something stupid no doubt, but Spot cut him to the chase. “Now, I’d love to continue talkin’ with you, but it’s very unprofessional t’ do business in a diner. For men like us, it ain’t the most optimal settin’.”

Richardson Noah leaned forwards, for whatever reason, and stage whispered so loud he may as well be talking. “You had a place in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Spot said, before giving him a address in Brooklyn. It was a hotel currently under renovation. Not that the location mattered exactly. Richardson Noah would have all of ten seconds to complain before doing the dirt dance.

“And we can plan for tomorrow—” Spot began before Richardson Noah decided to interrupt him. 

“Why not today?” Richardson Noah said. “No use goin’ back to Hoboken just to come back here again.” Richardson Noah repeated the aforementioned address. “How’s about I meet you there by six?”

Spot thought over the decision in a few seconds time. Waiting another day was just another day for this poor excuse for a man to walk the earth. 

“Six,” Spot nodded and held out his hand. Richardson Noah quickly shook it, and Spot didn’t want to think to hard on why the man’s hand was so wet. With nothing more to say, he grabbed his cane and made his out of the diner, listening to the soft patter of a cat follow from behind.

Oh, yeah. The cat.

* * *

 

“They should’ve been here a half hour ago,” Spot muttered, checking his watch. Although it wasn’t raining, hadn’t rained since that morning, the air was still humid and warm and uncomfortable and his knee ached in protest

Below him, Clementine meowed and Spot briefly wondered why he didn’t just make a detour to his apartment to drop the cat off their. But then he remembered the mess she made of his papers, and reckoned that he was just going to have to deal with this.

He did stop and get a hoagie with his spare time because he missed out on the best eggs and bacon in the state and he was still mad about that.

Spot wasn’t lying when he said the hotel was under renovations. Some part of the building had caught fire a few weeks back and it had messed with the painting and the paneling and all sorts of wiring underneath. From what he knew, the faulty wiring was now liable to spark and burst into flames if lights were left on for too long and Spot decided that the owner of this hotel was one unlucky bastard.

As it was, the only people who frequented the area near the hotel these days were construction workers. Except all the construction workers were fired, ha, for the time being because the owner of the hotel was also paranoid along with being unlucky and a bastard. So, only Spot and Richardson Noah were going to be there. Also, whoever Richardson Noah decided to bring along because Richardson Noah was an idiot, but not too much of an idiot to come to a “business deal” alone.

“You ain’t sign up for this shit, huh?” Spot said to Clementine. He looked down at the cat and the cat looked up at him.

If a cat could roll their eyes, Spot was pretty sure that was what Clementine just did.

“Shut up,” Spot said, not unkindly. He thought to himself for a moment. Richardson Noah and friends were late, so he had extra time. Probably.

Spot rested his cane against a nearby wall and cursed at the pain in his knee as he crouched down. He wrapped his arms around Clementine and held on as the mass of orange fur squirmed under his grip. 

“Calm down, Clementine,” he said as he walked inside the empty hotel. It struck him as otherworldly. The inside of the hotel was heavily furnished, with a sense of handsome style, which made it all the more weird for the lopsided limping sound of his footsteps to be the only noise echoing all throughout the interior. 

Hell, he could piss on one of the couches and no one would be the wiser. 

Not that he would because that would be weird.

Once he was a fair distance from the place he planned to meet Richardson Noah, he set Clementine down the floor. 

“Now, you can creep around here so long as you don’t interfere,” Spot said to the cat.

Clementine looked up at him with her big eyes, feigning innocence.  _ Interfere? _ her eyes seemed to say.  _ Me? _

“Don’t play dumb,” Spot said. “The last thing I need is you gettin’ shot.” 

Physically, Boots was no match for Spot. But Boots would still find a way to kill him.

Before turning around, he pointed at Clementine. “Don’t fuckin’ disappear. Hear me?”

Clementine just stared and raised her tail. They kept eye contact until Clementine decided she was above such petty displays of dominance and turned around, creeping wherever she so pleased.

“Alright,” Spot said to himself before turning around and hobbling back to the door.

Just as he walked outside the door, he saw Richardson Noah and his merry men step into view. With quick glances, Spot noticed the car to the left of him and the lack of more men. It was just Richardson Noah and those same two men.

What an  _ idiot. _

“Let’s make this quick,” Richardson Noah said and Spot briefly entertained the possibility that Richardson Noah wanted to conduct honest business. Maybe they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Perhaps, something was ailing him before he stepped foot in the diner. Let’s be friends.

And just as quick as Spot entertained that notion, he discarded it. He was done with niceties.

He’d make this quick.

“Whatever you say,” Spot said, before whipping up his gun, aiming it at Richardson Noah’s face, and pulling the trigger, all done at such a speed that the poor fuck hadn’t had a chance to process what was happening. What remained of his head was bloody unrecognizable but, somehow, less ugly than it had been before.

The two additional men paused in a moment of shock before they got a hold of their nerves. Unfortunately for them, a moment’s hesitation was all the time Spot needed.

_ Bang! _

_ Bang! _

And then, there was none.

New years resolution besides, Spot couldn’t help but feel that giant flaming ball of irritation that had grown in his head shrink to only a pinprick. Especially as the blood of the men pooled around them. 

He updated the to-do list in his head as he limped towards the wall where he had left his cane, grunting the whole way. He had some calls to make, some law enforcement types to ignore this whole affair, and a car to get rid of. Also, a shower.

He walked back insider the empty hotel, his cane tapping against the tile. He stopped at the place where he’d left Clementine.

He added “finding the goddamn cat” to his list.

 

* * *

“Did you get the sales job?” Spot asked Race after the man made himself at home once Spot opened the door. Racetrack Higgins was stubborn and while that characteristic was one of the things that Spot appreciated about him, it was also a source of contention. Many a time, Spot had extended a job offer to the Manhattanite only to get rejected. Race was never interested in the illegal affair of bootlegging, no matter how lucrative it was. He’d much rather be in a job he liked doing, not one that would stress him out all the time.

Spot had yet to figure out what could possibly be more stressful than always looking for a job, but it was Race’s decision. He’d trust it.

“They said they’d give me a trial run, whatever that means.” Race collapsed on Spot’s couch. He rested one arm over his eyes and loudly yawned.

“You stayin’ over?” Spot asked, not trying to sound too hopeful.

“I mean, I gotta get Boots’ cat and hop a ferry there and back. And then I gotta drop one of Jack’s paintings off at Medda’s because he’s sick and Katherine’s sick and I volunteered because I’m _amazing_. And then I told Mike and Ike that I’d see  _ Safety Last! _ with them…” and then Race laughed. “I ain’t even lookin’ at you, Spotty, but lighten up.  _ Obviously,  _ I’m stayin’ the night.”

Spot rolled his eyes.

“You worry too much,” Race said.

“I fuckin’ don’t,” Spot retorted.

“Where’s the cat then?”

And Spot felt said worry creep up his spine as he spun around to look for the cat. “ _ Goddammit, where's the cat?” _

Race cackled. “There it is! Worrying!”

“Shut that hole in ya face and help me look,” Spot said. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Clementine!”

“Clementine!” Race called out.

“Oh my darlin’!”

And that’s how they spent the next few minutes, calling out for a cat that seemed to remain elusive. They searched every inch of Spot’s apartment, not that there was much to search, and by the end Spot’s knee felt like it would give out.

“Hey, Spot?” Race began.

“Fuckin’ what?” Spot said, looking at Race.

Race raised his eyebrows and pointed at the  _ fucking cat _ on Spot’s desk where one of its paws was raised up, only a few threatening inches away from an open bottle of whiskey. And next to that whiskey was a stack of papers. 

Spot felt nauseating feeling of deja vu.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” Spot quietly said.

Clementine narrowed her eyes and began to move her paw as both Race and Spot screamed.

“ _ CLEMENTINE!” _

**Author's Note:**

> spot the movie references!


End file.
